“No…I would be here still.”
What in the world? She frowned at Fintan, frustration increasing with his circular tale. “You just said there would be no survivors.”
His gaze dipped to where he plucked at an errant fiber on the couch’s arm. “Remember Nyamah saved eight children.”
“Ah. Yes. So you would be here. You descend from her line.”
He sucked in a short breath. “Not her line. I am her son, Beth.”
Blinking, Beth rapidly shook her head in disbelief. She hadn’t heard him correctly. Couldn’t have. Fintan had always been a little eclectic, but she’d have sworn he was sane. She hurriedly set her wineglass on the table behind her and scooted to the edge of the couch. “I think we should call it a night.”
Fintan’s hand settled on her shoulder. Firm pressure pushed her back into the cushions. “Running won’t change anything, Beth, and it won’t make this go away. It can’t change the truth.”
“I, ah, think we’re veering a little far from the truth now, frankly.”
His gaze flickered, dark light replacing his somberness. “Tell me how I could know exactly how Drandar looks, where Nyamah stands in your dream, and what Ealasaid does then.”
She stared, but no matter how she tried to dig for an explanation, she couldn’t find one. How did he know? Not one single reason came anywhere close to logical. Everything took her down the path of the metaphysical in some fashion or another.
“You can’t. And I couldn’t have known it unless I saw it too.”
“So we had the same dream?” Please, please, say yes.
“No.”
Beth closed her eyes, unwilling, unable to listen to any more. This wasn’t happening. She hadn’t gotten involved with someone who was half-sane.
“I was born one hundred and ninety-four years before the year Christians started counting time with Christ’s birth. I’m over two thousand years old, my sire is a demon, and my mother a priestess of light.”
That’s it—she was out of here. Bolting to her feet, she darted across the room, far away from the unstable man who occupied the couch. “I don’t know what you think I am, Fintan, but I’m not stupid. No one is immortal.” She set a shaking hand on the heavy deadbolt and pushed it aside. “And I’m leaving. This room. This house.”
“Beth!” He shot to his feet. Five long, determined strides closed the distance between them.
But as Fintan’s fingers grazed her elbow, Beth yanked open the door and dashed into the hall. He was crazy. As off his rocker as his sister. And to think…she’d nearly gotten caught up in the fantasy of Fintan, Scotland, and painting once again.
How stupid could she be?
Racing down the hall as fast as her feet would carry her, she fled for the safety and solitude of her room. In the morning she’d catch a cab to the airport, her ancestry be damned. Fintan could keep the scroll. It might hold a key to her past, but she couldn’t tolerate the thought of confronting him long enough to ask for it back.
Her life was waiting on her. Dreary, mundane, normal as it was.
Chapter Twelve
It took every ounce of control Fintan possessed to let Beth run away and not chase after her. But some rational part of his mind still functioned, and he realized doing so would only push her farther away. He’d dumped a heap of fiction on her shoulders and asked her, expected her to accept it as fact.
Not his most eloquent moment by far.
Sighing, he shoveled a hand through his hair and bowed his head. One way or the other, the truth had to come out. There was no easy way to reveal his existence. No chance of making it smooth and nice. No matter what he said, she’d still refused to believe. She was programmed not to.
Not that he could blame her. Had their roles been reversed he would have reacted the same.
Damn it.
He drank his wine slowly, forcing his feet to remain rooted inside his study. He ached to go to Beth, to comfort her fears, ease her tumult, and foreswear his parentage. If he could take the vile truth away, he would. If he could have kept it from her, he would have. His growing feelings for her, however, demanded a different course of action.
And the ritual demanded her participation as well. His mother written words surfaced in his mind. The blood of the untainted pure shall ensnare.
To another scholar, the runic phrase would be cryptic, easily satisfied by a dozen different meanings. To Fintan, and the children who suffered Drandar’s unholy curse, that requirement only held one meaning. Beth carried the pure blood of the Selgovae. And she also lacked the tainted stain of darkness.
Unlike any of the previous rituals his siblings had discovered, Beth was the only person able to satisfy Nyamah’s spell. While any of her children could perform the ritual, seemingly Nyamah crafted this one with Beth specifically in mind. As if she had been somehow predetermined to become part of the McClaine family.
He shook his head. No, that was wishful thinking on his part. Ealasaid saved thirty-two people. Somewhere, someone else carried the same blood that ran in Beth’s veins. Beth just happened to be the one currently involved. If she hadn’t come along now, who was to say that in another decade, another hundred years, someone else wouldn’t have?
In fact, in the last century, Fintan himself had encountered a Selgovae descendant—Patrick Cullen. The man was dead now, but if the scrolls had been unearthed then, one of Fintan’s sisters might have held the one that presently lay on his couch.
The true irony came in the discovery that Beth shared Ealasaid’s memories. That she bore such a striking resemblance to the aunt-by-second-marriage Fintan had once known.
He downed the last of his wine and glanced at the echoing clock. Fifteen minutes. Time enough to let Beth fight the truth.
He set his glass down and strode for the door. Halfway across the room, he remembered the scroll and doubled-back to lock it up once more. When it was secured in his desk again, he jogged into the hall.
Brigid marched toward him, fury etched into her beautiful face. “I warned you, brother.”
In no mood for her tantrums, Fintan clenched a fist at his side. “Leave me, Brigid. This isn’t a good time.”
“No, I suspect it isn’t. The way your little princess fled your study after you told her about our heritage? You need her to cooperate with you.”
His eyes widened. How in the name of the ancestors had she known about his conversation?
Brigid smirked as she moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Have you told her you’re in love with her yet? Have you warned her what will happen if she doesn’t go along with your little plan?”
“I’m not in love with Beth.” Not yet. It was becoming harder and harder to deny the nature of his feelings…but he could still cling to the fact his heart hadn’t opened all the way.
Soft, mocking laughter filled the hall. “I can’t decide which appeals more—waiting for you to fall so I can watch you kill her? Or ending this now, before she can set her claws in you further.”
“Damn it, Brigid!” he exploded. Anger launched through him. She might adore their father, but she was his sister. “Damn your black soul! It doesn’t matter what the rest of us might want, does it? So long as you get your wishes. You and the despicable thing who sired us!”
“That thing is our father, brother.” She strode forward and stabbed a finger in the center of his chest. “You wouldn’t be here were it not for him. You wouldn’t have that pretty little plaything to keep you warm at night. You wouldn’t have your precious coven to distract you from the dark half of your soul.”
The fist he clenched curled tighter. He forced himself to remember she was his sibling, that she was, despite her despicable nature, female at the core of her being. If she had been Taran, or any of his brothers, he’d have knocked her jaw sideways on its hinges.
“I want the scroll, Fintan. Does she have it?”
“What scroll?”
Two hands settled on his sternum, and she shoved him backward.
“Don’t play dumb with me! I heard you mention it. Now where is it?”
Frantically, he searched his mind for what he might have left out of his wardings. A word, the wrong inflection of voice—how had he failed to block his sister from hearing?
“Does she have it?” Sidestepping around him, Brigid moved closer to Beth’s door.
Dawning crashed on Fintan’s shoulders. The candles. Somehow she’d imbibed the candles with a scrying spell. That’s why she’d taken one with her when they finished tying ribbons. Why she insisted on making them for the ritual. She’d heard every conversation that took place in his study since she’d left them behind.
She tossed him a sugary sweet smile. “I see I’ll have to get my answers from her. How delightful.”
His sister took another step toward Beth’s door, and sheer rage bore down on Fintan. Without thought, he lifted one palm and murmured an archaic phrase. Pristine light flew from his fingers, summoned from the very core of his soul. It slammed into Brigid’s chest, knocking her off her feet and into the hard stone wall. Her eyes barely widened before her pained cry pealed through the hall.
“You…son of a…bitch,” she rasped as she clutched at her chest. Blood trickled between her fingers, slid the back of her hand. Grimacing, she eased to her knees. “I swear, you’ll pay for this, Fintan.”
Not for a while. It would take several hours for Brigid to heal that wound. Days if she allowed it to seal without the use of magic and healing herbs. For the moment, however, she lacked the strength to harm Beth. Fintan stalked past his sister, unconcerned with her warning, and let himself into Beth’s unlocked room, careful to bolt the door behind him.
If Brigid knew of the scroll, Drandar would in short notice.
A slamming door snapped his head toward the bathroom just as Beth exited, her arms full of toiletries. Fresh from the shower, her long hair dripped down her back, soaking her terry robe. With a mere glance in his directly, she stormed to the bed and dumped them all into her suitcase. “Leave me alone, Fintan.”
The undeniable sign of her departure nearly dropped him to his knees. He’d pushed, dumped the truth on her unceremoniously, but he hadn’t expected her to bail in the middle of the night. At a loss for words, he asked the obvious. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” She stuffed rumpled clothes on top of the toiletries.
“Tonight?”
“Yes. I’m calling a cab.”
“Don’t go.” The whispered request popped free before Fintan could bite it behind his teeth.
For an instant, Beth’s hands stilled. She lifted her head, looking at him fully for the first time. When she spoke, her words lacked the bitterness of emotion. “I think it’s for the best.”
Not in a hundred lifetimes was it for the best. Regardless of how much he wanted her to stay, Drandar and Brigid knew about the scroll. Even if that ancient rite remained locked in Fintan’s desk, his sire would hunt Beth down. She knew their secrets. Possessed the knowledge of his demise. Aside from the fact she might return at any moment to fulfill the ritual, Drandar’s pride alone wouldn’t allow her to walk free. Much less live.
On legs that felt like lead, Fintan crossed to Beth and set his hands on her shoulder. “Please don’t go.”
Wide, tremulous eyes held his, brimming with emotion she couldn’t hide behind the firm, unrelenting lines of her mouth. He cupped the side of her face in his palm, falling deeper into the feeling that shone in her jade green stare. His thumb stroked her pursed lips. “Leaving doesn’t solve things.”
Her shoulders sagged with her sigh. “There’s nothing to solve, Fintan.”
“No?” His gaze dipped to her mouth. “What about this?” Drawn by a force greater than himself, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers. Slowly, he played upon them, gently nipping, sucking at her lower lip, easing her mouth open until he slipped inside and stroked her tongue with his.
Beth’s response stole the strength from his knees. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she met his gentle foray with abandon. Her teeth pricked his upper lip. The sweep of her tongue eased the painful pinch. Greedily, she took all he offered, demanded more than he knew how to give.
His arms wound possessively around her waist, and he sank one knee on the bed. She fell beneath the press of his body into the thick quilts without protest. Twisting her head to the side, Beth pulled on his hair, guiding his mouth to her neck, lower to the deep V of her robe. He nudged the soft fabric aside and closed his lips around her nipple, sucking greedily.
Her blissful sigh blanketed his soul.
Soothed by the sound, he found a modicum of control and eased the aggressive assault of his mouth. Taking his time, he laved her nipple, twirling his tongue around it lazily until her back arched off the bed and her nails dug into his shoulders. A soft moan of pleasure spilled off her parted lips. “That feels…so good,” she murmured.
“You feel good, Beth.” In ways he couldn’t begin to name. All he comprehended was that she soothed the torment he’d struggled with for so long. That something about Beth quieted his divided soul. This was where he belonged. With her. Tangled in her embrace. Lost to every bit of logic he had ever known.
He would do whatever it took to keep her at his side. Move to the States. Buy her the shop in the village. Anything, everything she required.
As he moved to draw her opposite nipple into his mouth, he reached between their bodies to unknot her belt. The fabric fell away, giving him the freedom to smooth his palm down her abdomen, lower to the juncture of her thigh. Her hips lifted at the press of his fingertips. Moisture met his touch.
The need to feel Beth melt against his tongue dominated his awareness. Releasing her nipple, he scattered lingering kisses down the centerline of her body, wending his way lower, until his mouth joined the intimate stroke of his finger. He swirled his tongue around her tiny feminine nub, and Beth let out a sharp, pleasured cry.
Chapter Thirteen
Every stroke, every warm exhale frayed Beth’s already tattered nerves. Her senses honed in on Fintan’s deliberate mouth, so sharply every other point of contact between them faded into oblivion. All she knew was the unrelenting pleasure of his lips and tongue, the way he was slowly tearing her into irrecoverable pieces.
She clung to his hair, unable to do more than move against him, a slave to the wild sensations streaking through her. Indefinable pleasure. Immeasurable satisfaction.
Him. Sweet heaven above.
His lips clasped firmly on her, the pressure as he sucked stealing the last of her awareness. Ecstasy broke over her body, bringing her off the plush mattress, closer to the intoxicating magic of his mouth. She gave into the roiling tide of bliss with a moan she only distantly heard.
Madness. He was making her as mad as he was. She had no business getting more entangled with Fintan McClaine, but dear Lord, she couldn’t stop.
As awareness slowly crept into her thoughts, the tickle of his hair against her inner thigh shot a tremor through down her spine. She gasped against it, shuddered again as he shifted and the fabric of his shirt grazed over her abdomen. “Fintan.” She loosely clutched his shoulders. “Stop moving. I’m too sensitive.”
His mouth dusted across her belly, his soft chuckle making her nerves stand on end. “Exactly how I want you.”
Deliberately, he arched his back, bringing his chest in contact with her taut breasts, and he rubbed his body down the length of hers. The full-out contact was too much. Beth let out a groan as she twisted beneath him.
How was it possible to feel so desperately unfulfilled when he’d just brought her to mind-numbing release?
He stopped moving, and Beth sucked in a steadying breath. Her thoughts floated in a nonsensical chain, no one singular idea connecting with another. Trying to sift them into order, she focused on the thrum of her pulse. The tingling of her skin made it impossible. She could no more utter her full name than she could recite the alphabet in Latin.
He moved against her again, a
nd this time, bare skin glided over hers. Opening her eyes, she inhaled brokenly. His gunmetal gaze held hers, full of emotion that slipped beneath her trembling surface to stir another wave of heat from head to toe. The intensity behind his eyes was too much. Too overwhelming. If she looked too long, she’d never surface to the life she’d known before tonight.
Blocking out the surge of emotion behind her ribs, she laced her hands around his waist and shifted her legs to accommodate his broader hips. He settled against her aching center like an interlocking puzzle piece. Perfect. Designed to fit only her. Completion she had never dreamt could be possible.
The wide head of his cock nudged at her slick flesh, but he made no move to bring them together. Merely angling his hips, he stroked her slowly while his lips fluttered against her shoulder. A trail of pleasant warmth accompanied the path of his mouth as he inched toward hers, tempting her to turn her head, to speed him along to the kiss she’d swear she’d die without.
He ignored the insistent press of her hands, the frustrated arch of her back. Pinning her in place with the weight of his strong frame, he held her captive to his tauntingly deliberate seduction. As if she needed to be seduced—good heavens, she was so aroused it was almost embarrassing. Not once in her delusion of a marriage had she ever been so needy, ever wanted to feel the intimate possession of a man’s cock as she did right now. As she did each time Fintan held her in his protective embrace.
“Fintan, you’re driving me crazy,” she confessed with effort.
“Good.” He chuckled at the hollow at the base of her ear. “I don’t want you to think tonight.”
No worries there—she was incapable of the act. She turned her head, captivated by the mesmerizing sweep of his tongue. When he sank his hips into hers, hitting her central point of pleasure, she let out a plaintive mewl.
“We can’t solve this with an ocean between us, can we?”
“No.” Her answer came out in a breathless whisper.
His mouth hovered over hers, barely touching, his moist breath a torment that bordered on painful. “I need this, Beth. I need to fall asleep with you at my side. Wake up with you in my arms.”
Ensnared by Blood Page 8